The Retirement Plan

Chapter 6

 Many people in Spain were up in arms at the mandatory wearing of face-coverings in public. Not Christian Barnes. For a fellow in his line of work, it came as a godsend, made his job so much simpler. Now that he thought of it, the pandemic had taken much of the complication out of his work. Thanks to the eleven o'clock curfew, the streets of the small town were deserted. Not a sinner in sight. Save for Christian.

Christian was the handle his parents bestowed on him. Over the years, his heartbroken mother had plenty of cause to regret settling on that name. For there was nothing remotely Christian about the boy's nature. First, there were the drugs. Weed and Molly. Then, the petty larceny and fights. Followed by short stints in juvenile detention centers. As he advanced in years, he acquired a taste for cocaine, and graduated from nicking Nike sweatshirts from department stores to armed hold-ups. Youthful skirmishes with local hard-cases evolved into serious assault and wounding. Why leave bruises when you could leave scars? Indelible reminders that nobody fucked with Christian. Not that anyone referred to him as such. To friend and foe alike, he was Chris.

Chris drove past the service-station at the edge of town. No lights on in the forecourt. Inside, the shop still lit up, a skinny kid in a red-brimmed cap and polo-shirt moving about. Giving the floor a quick sweep, same as he had done on the previous two nights when Chris had scoped the place out. Soon as he finished tidying up, the kid would unlock the door and venture outside to bring in the wheeled display stand.

Chris had spent an entire morning cruising shitty one-horse towns until he had located the perfect place, a gas station that shut at night. Sure, having the police station located less than eighteen-hundred yards away didn't constitute the ideal scenario. But the lone patrol-car would be busy prowling the town-center, ensuring no-one was breaking curfew.

Chris parked up a few yards from the station, out of range of the security-cameras on the center-court. Took the Bowie-knife from the glove-compartment and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He had debated taking the machete, but aside from being conspicuous, it seemed like overkill.

Chris exited the car, stolen yesterday. Plates refitted. He closed the door over, softly.

The kid maneuvered a large stand containing various bottles of motor-oil up to the open door. Wearing a military-green baseball-cap and a black face-mask, Chris strode past the petrol-pumps. His rubber-soled sneakers making little noise on the concrete, his hand gripping the knife hilt.

The kid focused on steering the heavy stand through the door, not noticing his approach. Chris' adrenaline jackknifing with each step. In the zone.

The kid's head turned back, a look of irritation in his eyes. "Cerrado," he said sulkily. In one swift motion, Chris had the sarky little bastard pinned against the stand, the pointed tip of the Bowie-knife poking into the kids' neck. "Fucking move it, ya little shit."

"No hablo Inglés," the kid whined. Chris pressed the blade deeper. Didn't require a translator after that. The language of violence is universally understood. 

Soon as the kid scooped up the bills in the register, Chris had him lie face-down on the floor. Bet the prick was glad he had swept up now he was getting intimate with the tiles.

He spotted the smart phone lying on the counter. The kids. Chris snatched the phone up. On-screen, a topless model massaged her oiled-up breasts. "Now, take it out for me. That's right." A mocking inflection in her tone. Enjoying herself, like she was picturing the pathetic little losers beating their meat to the show. "Get hard for me."

Chris glanced down at the trussed-up attendant wiggling on the floor. "No hablo Inglés, eh?" He scrolled down the page, looking at the name of the video. "Jerk off instructions? Son, if you need instructions on how to play with yourself, what'll it be like when you get a bird? She's gonna need to supply ya with a manual."